Layer Cake Bombs
by Fourth-DimensionalCakePirates
Summary: It's explosive like nuclear fission. Garrison-centric. It all started with cake, and ends up being a tumultuous and thoroughly confusing romance. Eventual Cryle arc coming.
1. Celery and Coffee Cake

~with 50x more super serial. Hey, this is Jork & Zygote. :D We really hope you like this.

And we are aware that Scuzzlebutt is dead. Whatevs.

* * *

**Celery and Coffee Cake**

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* * *

**Herbert Garrison enjoyed eating coffee cake every night. Every night, at exactly 4:30 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Mr. Twig would often criticize this peculiar habit, but Herbert had learned to ignore such reprimands.

And so. _Coffee cake_. Tantalizing and smooth, just like –

Why would a Mr. Herbert Garrison be so precise with his cake consumption, anyway? Well, 4:30 AM was the exact time he'd first seen _Step By Step_. That movie had changed his life; it had been the moment when his eyes were first blessed with the loveliness that could only be described as Patrick (middle name) Duffy. Years of unrequited love had not thwarted Garrison of his affections, and he would still feel that unmistakable compulsion every night, at 4:30 AM.

Patrick Duffy was his idol, and he had even gone so far as to learn a smorgasbord of trivia over the years, such things as "Patrick's favourite baked good is coffee cake."

And for this, Herbert Garrison thoroughly adored coffee cake.

One last, agonizing bite, and his fork was scraping against an empty plate. He felt his compulsions fade again. Mr. Twig snapped at him to go to sleep, and in his exhausted state Garrison found himself actually listening.

Throughout his life, he had often found himself ignoring those he loved the most. He blamed his father for molesting him so late in life. Hell, he pushed his own students away and regarded other people as wholly unimportant. In the face of his pursuit of The One Patrick Duffy, that **One Lofty Goal** in life, nothing else mattered. Nothing else _could_ matter.

* * *

He pulled his pants on, one leg at a time, just as we all might do someday. Garrison adjusted his glasses, and zipped his obstinately bright green jacket up. It was time to face the most dreaded six hours of his day-to-day life.

Getting in his car, Garrison silently promised himself that he would _not_ bring up Patrick Duffy in today's lesson plan. It would be hard, but it would be for his own good.

It was a promise that he knew he would be breaking.

* * *

"You know what I fucking hate?" eight year old Eric Cartman shouted, in between bites of Snacky Smores.

"What?" Clyde Donovan mumbled disinterestedly. The slightly-less-chubby brunet hoisted himself into his seat and sighed.

Cartman shoved three Smores into his mouth and began to chew rapidly. Clyde watched enviously.

"_God,_ I hate Christina Applegate movies. She's a dumb bitch who was, what, in a fucking 80s sitcom! Why the hell is she still alive?"

Clyde nodded. "Yeah." He flipped his copy of Playboy open just as Mr. Garrison walked in.

"All right, children. Settle down." Garrison grabbed a piece of chalk and made his way toward the greenboard. There was a collective groan that pervaded the room.

He decided to start with math. Something completely unrelated to Patrick Duffy. Not that he was even thinking about Patrick Duffy in the first place.

The chalk screeched across the board. "What's 215 times 2?" he asked. Any eight year old would be able to solve that, right?

"430!" yelled a small voice in the back. Garrison didn't restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Of course the Chinese kid answered the _math_ question.

"Very good, Kevin," he remarked dryly, and went to write another problem. "430." Suddenly his throat constricted and he dropped his chalk.

430. 4:30 AM. **Patrick Duffy.**

This was too much to handle. He glanced over the class, but could only see 23 Patrick Duffys sitting casually in their desks. Oh _God, he_ wanted all of them!

Garrison yelped, turning to Bebe Stevens: a striking image of Patrick Duffy sweetly nestled in yellow locks. His eyes swivelled around the class, trying to find something that was free of his hallucinations. With relief he saw that Cartman was the regular fatass as always, borderline obese and obnoxious. But after a moment he could see the glorious Mr. Duffy plastered all over that succulently pudgy face...

_My, God Garrison! You're turned on by Eric Cartman! _

He screamed, and ran out the door.

"Um, Mr. Garrison, where are you going?" Wendy Testaburger (yet another Patrick Duffy, this time with straight black hair and more angular features) voiced, in a tone almost akin to that of concern.

He paid the third grader no mind and frantically dashed for the exit. He pushed through two heavy doors, barely making it outside in one hysterical piece. It was pouring rain, as it was in his heart.

Garrison scrambled across the lawn, half-slipping in the quickly forming mud. Tears poured from his eyes, merely masked by the continual flow of rain down his cheeks. Thoughts of the man he could not have ran through his head as he abruptly threw himself across the rain-ridden sidestreet, in one fluidly painful motion. He fell onto his stomach, face scraping against the concrete. His lips bled, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"PATRICK!" Herbert Garrison screamed through the trees, with an echo that seemed to recall the ancient thoughts of time.

Herbert wept.

The last thing he could see was a Patrick Duffy shade of black – so utterly, miserably alluring.

* * *

His eyes drifted open to a haze of colour. A refreshing scent – was that celery? – wafted from above, confusing his senses. Where was this celery infestation coming from? The lovely smell was soon joined by a loud, disgruntled snort. Herbert looked up to see a hideous malformation of man looming above.

"Hello?" he heard a smooth, almost melodic voice pierce into his consciousness. The angelic tones made his ears buzz pleasantly – he recognized that voice and that poignant smell of coffee cake! "Are you alright?"

_Yes_, he wanted to say, _I'm more than all right, I'm heavenly!_ But the words were strangled within his throat. He couldn't accept that this was really happening. He waited for another sign.

"Sir, we're worried if you're hurt."

_We?_ Was someone else there with him? Had he found himself a lover before Herbert had had a chance to lunge into this angel's life? The first sensations of unreasonable jealousy burned into his barely conscious mind.

"What is going on?" he managed to snap, after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

"You fell. I watched you from the forest, it was incredible. You were screaming something, what were you saying?"

"Uhm.. I was.. I was... PATRICK DUFFY!" The name burst from his insides, tore from his throat; and without further regard for sanity, he threw all of his emotion into those two beautiful words.

A pause. The voice seemed to be considering something. Garrison suddenly felt horribly, sickeningly embarrassed.

"You know me, sir?" The voice seemed interested, almost hopeful of Herbert's next words.

Herbert's eyes widened even further. He sat up against the wet concrete, breathing unevenly. He could only nod in an awkward, jerky fashion.

A smile crept across the man's face, which Garrison could now see belonged to the gorgeous Patrick Duffy.

But something was off. Patrick was at almost an uncomfortable angle. Upon further investigation, he could now see that Patrick was upside down. It was then that he heard that grunt again. It was almost a guttural roar, but he couldn't place where it was coming from.

"Scuzzey, shut up," Patrick groaned.

Herbert felt his insides turn to ice. Scuzzey? SCUZZEY? So Patrick Duffy did have a lover!

[_Run. Run now and escape the humiliation that awaits you here._]

And he did. Bruised, bloodied, and, most regrettably, **without his glasses**.

"Shit, I can't see!" Herbert screamed, breaking into a run into the nearby forest. He pushed against trees, branches scraping him further until he fell. Again. And just like the last time, the rain began to pour. A reflection of his emotion and his soul. Torrential pain.

* * *

That night, he tried to put an end to the consumption of coffee cake. No more. He couldn't deal with all of this Patrick Duffy nonsense anymore.

4:20am. "No problem," Herbert spoke softly to himself, "it's just dessert. I'll occupy myself with something else."

4:25am. Mr. Twig crawled out of his drawer, ready to prepare a reprimanding speech. Herbert didn't notice, as his eyes were steadily trained on the clock upon the mantle. His hands tightened into fists and he strengthened his resolve. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he felt his soul being torn by indecisiveness.

4:30am. (In present tense for extra drama.) He can't handle it. He needs it. He _yearns_ for it.

"PATRICK DUFFY!" He ran to his refrigerator, knife in hand. He was ready to taste some of Patrick's favourite cake. He went to open the door.

...No cake.

_Fuck_.

Like an addict in withdrawal – no, he _was_ an addict in withdrawal – he collapsed onto the floor. The excruciating sense of déjà vu cut through him like a cake knife.

It was morning. He pulled into his parking spot outside of South Park Elementary, a head full of Patrick Duffy and a stomach full of empty promises. He pushed himself through the doors and down the hall. He didn't deserve the ability to do such things.

He managed to get to his class, green jacket in hand, hell if he knew where his glasses were. Herbert didn't even bother to tell the class to settle down. He didn't even send Craig down to Mr. Mackey for flipping him off.

Kyle Broflovski and Cartman were arguing again, and Herbert didn't _care_.

"You know what you are?"

"What? What am I, Cartman?"

"You're a little Scuzzlebuttfucking Jew."

_Scuzzlebutt?_

Logical little Stan Marsh chimed in, "Scuzzlebutt? Do you really have to bring him up? I just stopped having nightmares." He pinched the bridge of his nose and planted his face in his textbook. "I hate you, Cartman."

"We all know," said Kyle rather righteously, "that no one can have Patrick Duffy as a _leg_, Cartman!"

Herbert jumped from his seat, "Boys. Stop slandering Patrick Duffy!"

"I'm just saying," said Cartman, "that Kahl is wrong. And," as an afterthought, "Scuzzlebutt is real. I saw him talking to Mr. Garrison yesterday. I filmed it with my Wellington Bear camera. Wanna see?" He pulled it out.

Quickly, thinking of a way to get his hands on this camera, Garrison said, "Eric Cartman. No toys in class! Hand it over now."

And with that, Herbert Garrison had a video of Patrick Duffy and his lover.

The lover that he planned to murder.

* * *

Sorry, but Godwe_rock._


	2. Or I'll Kill Your Face

During the making of this chapter, I was chainsawed to death by Zaine.

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**Jork, look up Penn & Teller or I'll kill your face. Gee thanks.**

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* * *

**

"Work for me, Wellington Bear!" Herbert gestured angrily to the camera. He snuggled under his sheets and gazed thoughtfully at the plastic bear. He was to watch frame for frame what had happened that day.

He pressed _play_, and as the tape started to spin, Herbert dropped his newly bought coffee cake at the sight.

"Oh my God.." he gargled, jaw dropping uncomfortably. All he could see was a large, brown mass - in the _middle of the parking lot_. Confused, he paused the video and leaned forward to inspect the screen.

Celery to the side. He could see that much.

And there were baskets. Everywhere, he saw intricately woven designs made of birch and toffee. Disregarding the nonsensicality of this whole thing, he decided to keep watching the video. Herbert shoved a piece of cake into his mouth just as the creature's leg started to twitch on screen. ...How had Eric Cartman managed to film this without getting his ass killed?

Herbert could now see the creature – those little bastards had called him Scuzzlebutt – in full view. His muscles tensed and he almost couldn't bring himself to watch.

He stared at its head: brown, messy fur covered the face, and the creature was panting in rage. The left arm was just like its face, smothered in chaotic tangles. But the right arm was made of a stringent stalk of fibrous celery.

"Holy Mother of fucking Christ.." Herbert muttered to no one in particular. "And Eric Cartman thinks that this is Patrick Duffy."

As he dwelled on the corruption of the next generation, his gaze lowered to Scuzzlebutt's legs. Herbert was gay, after all, and mildly turned on.

He opened his mouth to scream, but only a faint yelp danced out of his throat, pulling some sort of electric slide into the air. The video was having a very hallucinatory effect on him, like a hit of LSD on a rainy college day.

His head throbbed painfully, and he felt the backs of his retinas burning with renewed clarity – like he'd suddenly found some new _purpose _to his life. Herbert clenched his fists; and he was vaguely aware of his nails digging into his palms, forming painful crescents. Ow.

His brow furrowed involuntarily and he groaned. Loudly.

Those _eyes_. Oh, those eyes that had haunted his dreams for eleventy years and beyond. It was him. It had always been him... dangling from Scuzzlebutt's waist, just out of reach...

"Holy Christ," he spoke, "it's Patrick."

He knew that watching the video would, along with eating coffee cake, become a nightly ritual for him. He would pause it at the exact moment when His face showed up. It was blurry, but so ethereally haunting. And Herbert was absolutely lovestruck.

Scuzzlebutt's leg seemed to be constructed of Patrick Duffy. And then it dawned on him. Scuzzey wasn't a lover, but a host for Duffy's existence.

"I have to save him," was the first thought that sprang to mind. With this newfound goal, Garrison slowly drifted into sleep.

* * *

Patrick was on a beach. Wearing nothing but a bikini bottom.

"Hahahahahah," Garrison giggled, joining Patrick and Scuzzlebutt in the sand.

They kissed. It was sandy and passionate. But there was something so invasive about having Scuzzlebutt in the midst of it all.

"Everyone has baggage," insisted Patrick, but Herbert tore himself away.

Then, they were on a horse. The summer breeze drifted past Herbert's long, flowing hair. His skirt rippled in the wind, and he could practically taste the perfection in that divine moment.

"Never leave me, Patrick. I need you. I need you more than coffee cake."

"I won't ever leave, Herbey. I won't ever leave your side."

* * *

He woke up to incessant knocking.

His mind was racing, his heart palpitating from all this syncopation. He had to open the door. He dragged himself out of the tangled mess of sheets (what had he been dreaming about?) and slowly made his way to the door.

The knocking got louder as Herbert approached. Louder and quicker than before, matching his heart beat for beat. Whoever was on the other side needed him urgently, it seemed.

He grasped the handle. He could feel the vibrations on the cold metal as he turned the knob and pulled open the separation.

"Hello?"

"Hello." The smooth, composed voice calmed Garrison's erratic nerves.

Then an unearthly growl sounded from beyond the doorway, a loud and menacing noise.

Herbert slammed the door shut, too afraid to venture outside. He couldn't bear to speak anymore. His throat felt dry and his breathing came out in short, painful gasps.

The knocking started again, this time accompanied by that wonderful voice. "Sir, I have something for you!"

Who the fuck wanted to_ give_ him something? He leaned against the door in contemplation, the vibrations running through his back. "What is it?" he whispered. His voice was so small. He hated himself for being such a coward.

"I have your glasses. You left them when we talked two days ago."

His fingers moved up to adjust the frames – oh, shit, what?

"I..I have no idea what you're talking about." He bit his bottom lip.

"You fell a couple of days ago, we talked... Remember the parking lot?"

Herbert's breath caught. "What about it?" He looked over to the fridge. _God_, he wished he could have some coffee cake right now.

There was an audible sigh at the other end. "Generally, people need glasses to see," the voice admonished.

"Just... Just answer one question for me," Garrison requested.

"Yes. Anything." The melodic voice soothed his crackling nerves once more. Where had he heard those sweet tones before?

"Are you… Who _are_ you?" He waited for an answer. It was a moment that seemed to last a while. An eternity, at the very least.

"Have you, by any chance, seen the television show _Dallas_?"

He stifled a shriek. "Is this Patrick Duffy?" He almost screamed it out again, letting the unreasonable hope well up inside him.

"Yes. Yes, I am Patrick Duffy. And what's your name?"

Herbert smiled. "My name is Herbert. Herbert Garrison," he said, dreamy gaze in place.

"Well Herbert, I'd like to be your friend." Garrison flew up and pulled open the door in one swift swoop.

"I'd like to be your friend too, Mr. Duffy. Care for some coffee cake?"

Patrick entered the house, donning that sharp smile of his. They stayed up all night, telling stories of coffee cake and exchanging their favourite episodes (of _Dallas_, obviously). The small interruptions of Scuzzlebutt's growling only seemed to heighten the effect that Patrick had on Garrison.

* * *

Herbert awoke on his living room floor, to Patrick's voice. "Herbert? Herbert! I think we fell asleep."

He got up, and said, putting on his glasses, "Yes, I think we did." A dazzling smile spread across his face. He could _see_ again, and it was beautiful.

The next few days seemed to flash by in a Patrick Duffy haze. But, alas, Herbert couldn't help but find that Scuzzlebutt's groaning had gotten increasingly louder. Increasingly angry. But that didn't stop him from flapping his body around to that wonderful song in his head.

He danced into his classroom, ready to teach the children all about Patrick Duffy.

The chorus of, "Aw, Patrick Duffy's _gay_" didn't even faze him.

Mr. Mackey sat at his desk, tapping his pencil against a yellow legal pad.

"Now, Mr. Garrison, mm'kay? You do realize that..uh … Patrick Duffy is not the best topic to teach to a third grade class, mm'kay?"

Garrison glowered, an awkward shade of pink tingeing his cheeks. No, he was not unnecessarily angered – this was a matter of morals. "I'm in love."

"Wh-what, mm'kay?"

"You're violating my rights just because I'm gay," snapped Garrison indignantly.

"Now, this has nothing to do with your constant love for sin, mm'kay? This is based only on your curriculum. ..Mm'kay. For God's sake, Garrison! Eric Cartman had an emotional breakdown! Mm'kay?"

"It's not my fault the little prick is a homophobe!" He gestured wildly, eyes twitching. "There is _nothing wrong_ with my teaching!"

Garrison was moved to the kindergarten department after that.

* * *

The sun was going down. Herbert and Patrick lay on the edge of Stark's Pond, recounting tales of sadness and hope. Like being transsexual and then going back to being a man again. (That one wasn't Patrick's.)

"I think there's something I need to tell you, Herbert."

Garrison rolled over to meet Patrick's eyes. "Yes, Patrick. Anything."

"I'm… I'm a…" Worry spread across Herbert's face just as soon as he saw the uneasiness spread across Patrick's.

"What is it?" Herbert sat up abruptly, blanket falling from his chest.

"I... have to go."

And with that, Scuzzlebutt and Patrick vanished into the greenery.

"Ow," was the distant vocalization that Herbert heard occasionally, each time Patrick's head hit the ground. Funny, Scuzzlebutt never seemed to hit Patrick that hard before.

And now, Herbert Garrison was left with nothing but his own questioning thoughts. What was the meaning of life if you couldn't have _Patrick Duffy_? And then came his epiphany. Except then it slipped his mind. Damnit.

* * *

We love white mochas and angst.


	3. Into Multiple Hours

Try not to take it too seriously. ;D

* * *

**Into Multiple Hours; Tanka**

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**

"Happy one year anniversary, Patrick!" Herbert typed on his dedicated fansite. Sure, Herbert hadn't gotten any action for at least a year, and Patrick hadn't put out, but he was still sure that their relationship was alive and well. Thriving. He just wished that Patrick would reply to one of his posts – maybe in the "General Duffy" section? Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

The seconds ticked past. He glanced at the clock, minutes turning into hours into multiple hours.

"That's _it_," Herbert murmured to himself, "I am going to refresh one more time and then I'm going to bed."

His finger hung on the F5 key and he slowly pushed all his weight into that destiny-inspiring finger.

_Fuck_, nothing. So he stayed up for another three hours.

And then the red notification icon finally came up. It floated there, bouncing up and down as the screen proclaimed, _You have 1 New Message_.

"Oh my God," he thought, "here it comes." He grasped the mouse and guided it to the icon. _Click._ And it opened.

_Holy crap! One year anniversary! That's sooooo coolllll:))))))) OMG GO PATRICK3 _

"Bitch, please." He glanced at the clock for a final check. _4:30am_.

He had his cake and went to bed. He didn't want to feel like a needy chick.

* * *

"Alright, children. Settle down." Garrison commanded, exercising his new (lack of) power as a kindergarten teacher.

No response.

"Settle down!" he insisted. Yet again, nothing of any importance happened.

He sighed. "I said, SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN!"

Ike Broflovski, the kid with the ridiculously floppy Canadian head, crawled over in his blue onesie. His beady eyes bored into Garrison's shoes. "Hi, Mr. Garrison!"

"Why hello, Ike. Could you get the class to shut up?"

Ike stood, ran his hand through his hair, and eased himself atop his desk. "Everybody!" The class, almost in unison, turned to look. "I do believe it would be quite beneficial to our new teacher, Mr. Garrison if you all would please quiet yourselves when the man is trying to speak. My goodness, it's as if you are all infants! I for one will not stand for it. Where has the humanity gone? How can we be so heartless?"

Shocked into misunderstanding, Garrison's class went silent. Filmore slowly brought his hands together to clap. Slowly, other students picked up the applause. More and more, building into a crescendo of praise. Ike stood on his desk, hands in the air, basking in his newfound glory. Garrison's jaw fell, astonished by what he had just seen.

"Well, I'll be a margarine-covered whore..." He decided, then and there, on who his new favourite student would be.

"Attention all staff members and students," Principal Victoria's annoying voice crackled over the substandard speakers. There was a shrill whine of feedback, and the distant announcement of, "...Code Red... there is an unidentified person trespassing on school grounds. I repeat, this is a Code Red..."

The children screamed in a unified dispersion around the room.

**A knock on the door,  
A roar of an enraged beast,  
An opening of the door,  
A small Canadian child,  
A gasp... the terror begins.**

_Fight._

Scuzzlebutt stood at the door, breathing heavily. He gave Garrison a glare that could clearly be read as: "Let's do this, bitch." And they did it.

Garrison, shouting "PATRICK!", ran toward Scuzzlebutt. "Get out of my classroom," he hissed lowly, gesturing threateningly with Mr. Twig.

Scuzzlebutt growled intensely, reaching to the floor to pick up a newly woven basket. Cedar. Coincidentally the same type of wood Mr. Twig was made out of.

"Stop!" the muffled voice of a child pleaded.

Garrison ignored the stifled cry and said, "C'mon, Scuzzlebutt. I'm ready when you are. You took my man away." He turned his attention toward the leg he adored, aka Patrick Duffy. "Patrick, are you alright?" It appeared as if the beast had taped his mouth shut. Duffy struggled to nod.

That was when Scuzzlebutt let out a groan louder than the first, hurling his basket toward Garrison. The cold cedar wood struck his face, forcing him to stagger back. Garrison's eyes darted back toward the brown-furred monster, "Damnit. You gave me a splinter." A slight calm occurred before he gripped Flora Neal's desk, much to her bug-eyed opposition, and catapulted it toward Scuzzlebutt in a seemingly superhuman (and very attractive) feat. The mutant fell to the floor as a bead of sweat trickled from Garrison's non-existent hairline. He wiped it away aggressively.

Garrison backed up, his brow furrowing and his sight fogging. He reached his desk, and tugged on the drawers until he found the place where he hid his gun. Right between the stapler and the green glitter glue. The children, snug in the corner, mumbled briefly before Garrison's warning shot flew into the roof. Unfortunately they were on the first floor and the kindergartner's screams were accompanied by those of Ms. Choksondik's fourth grade class. It was too late to turn back now.

Amidst the fast accumulating rubble was Ike Broflovski, desperately crawling toward Scuzzlebutt. "Mr. Garrison. If you shoot him, you'll have to shoot me too." He raised his arms peacefully, taking place in front of Scuzzlebutt.

Garrison felt his stomach twist, but he shook his head. "Ike, move away from him!" He flailed the gun.

"Mr. Garrison. If you want to shoot him, you'll have to get through me first." Ike smiled triumphantly. "You see, Mr. Garrison, to murder – "

Before the speech could even start to make sense, Scuzzlebutt cracked a fairly strong ironwood basket over Ike's head. The Canadian's head cracked open, falling to ground in agony. A small portion of his brain seeped out of the split. The previously composed boy was now frantic, desperately trying to push the pieces back into his skull as he tried not to groan in pain. His body began to spasm, a seizure-like movement consumed his body. ...Leading into an expired kindergartner lying face down on the floor.

Garrison could only stare, mouth agape. The gun slipped from his hands, rattling in contact with the tiled floor, and he began to feel the tears sliding down his face.

"Ike?" Came a shout from the hole in the ceiling. Kyle Broflovski peered down into the wreckage, the bright green ushanka falling from his head. "Ike?"

Kyle threw himself down into the kindergartner's class. His face met the floor with a _smack_. He pulled himself up and stumbled over to his brother's lifeless body.

"Mr. Garrison?" Kyle said quietly.

Garrison closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, "Kyle, I'm-"

"SHUT UP!" Kyle screamed, one hand on Ike. "Just shut the fuck up!" He rubbed his hand against Ike's chest. "Hey, Ike..." he sniffed deeply, suppressing tears. "K...kick...the..the baby?" There was no response. "Kick the baby, Ike?"

Stan looked down at Kyle. "Kyle, he's-"

"Kick the baby, Ike? Answer me!" He smashed his foot into Ike's hip, causing him to roll over and expose more blood. The blood and brains that had dried to the floor now stretched like gum paste.

Craig Tucker walked over to stand beside Stan. He fixed the redhead with a deadpan stare. "Kyle, he's dead, you dumbass."

Stan shot him a glare. "Dude, what's wrong with you? Kyle, ignore him!" The sometimes-neurotic Super Best Friend of Kyle's jumped down and ran over. He looked over to Garrison, then to Scuzzlebutt. "Dude, this is pretty fucked up right here." Another cedar basket was thrown toward Stan, but he was able to duck before it met his skull. "Dude, what the fuck? Didn't I kill you, like, last year?"

Kyle turned to him bleakly. "Then kill him again, Stan!"

Stan lowered his head in preparedness. His eyes darted behind him, focus shifting to the shotgun that still lay on the floor. "I guess I have no choice," he murmured. Stanley Isaac Marsh, nine years old. He dove for the gun.

...

"Dude, I can't do this," Stan confessed, left arm falling to his side in defeat.

"Don't be such a pussy," Craig blurted from the gaping hole that still existed in the ceiling above. He then proceeded to flip him off.


End file.
